


Beautiful Somewhere

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Dragons, Fae & Fairies, Friendship, Gen, Magic, Pixies, Unicorns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 02:13:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14009943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Norway stumbles upon a special secret in England's garden shed.





	Beautiful Somewhere

Norway hurried up the front steps of the small house. He was twenty minutes late for the tea England had invited him to; the embassy had kept him longer than expected, and then he’d had trouble finding the right terrace. England lived in a brick house in a row of identical brick houses, all of them standing stiff as if trying not to brush shoulders with each other. Norway didn’t personally think it was a home very expressive of the Brit; ever since the Empire days ended and he’d moved out of his mansion, he seemed to become withdrawn, a diluted version of the bloodthirsty monster he’d once been. _No different than what happened to me,_ Norway thought. _My days of ships and battles are done._ He knew Denmark missed the old days, but Norway was glad to see them go. _No more Vikings, no more pirates._ He wasn’t optimistic—or, some might say, delusional—enough to think that humans would ever achieve complete peace, but he did think they were closer to it now than they were in those times. He did prefer the poetry of days gone by, however; there had been more pain back then, and thus the art had been richer, fed with suffering that modern artists simply couldn’t replicate. As he stood on England’s stoop and rang the doorbell, a once-forgotten verse came to mind: _Tardily came I, though called early/to the threshold of the throne._ He smiled faintly to himself. Perhaps he could mention it to England; he knew the island nation had a fondness for literature and old things, and this was both.

Norway stood waiting for almost two minutes, pondering all the possible outcomes of his delayed arrival. Perhaps England had drunk his tea alone, thinking Norway had forgotten about him? Perhaps he’d gone out on an errand? Or perhaps he’d nodded off in his rocking chair, the tea going cold in his cup, as America claimed he’d found England during his last visit? _The old man was out like a light,_ America had told Denmark. _All he needed was a pair of slippers!_ America seemed blind to the fact that Denmark—who was always willing to act like a hooligan with America and Prussia—was more of an _old man_ than England. Invariably, when Denmark spent a day with America, he’d collapse into bed with Norway that night and barely get out a _godnat_ before he started snoring. Norway couldn’t begin to keep up with younger nations these days, but he tried not to be too curmudgeonly about it. (But, for the record, he did own a pair of slippers. The floors in his house were cold, sue him.)

Norway wasn’t going to stand around all day waiting for England, but it seemed impolite to just leave—especially since he was late. _Would the door be locked, if he was home?_ It wasn’t as if the nations had anything to fear from armed robbers or the like. Norway tried the door knob. It opened.

“Mr. England?” he called. He didn’t usually use formal address outside of world meetings, but he knew how the Brit felt about propriety. _Elbows off the table. Sit up straight. Close your mouth when you chew._ Lunch breaks at those meetings were casual small talk interjected with England reminding America of etiquette—or, as the young nation put it, _nagging._ Norway never said it, but he thought that England was a bit overbearing of his ex-colony. _He doesn’t reflect on you anymore,_ he wanted to tell England. _Let him be himself. Don’t worry about him._ Not that there was any use in telling a nation not to worry about a colony, ex or not. Norway still worried about all of his own, after all. (And he did remind them to use indoor voices when roughhousing with Denmark, but that wasn’t _nagging_ , surely?)

Norway received no answer, even when he repeated his call. He hesitated, then stepped inside and closed the door behind him. There was still the possibility of England being asleep. He walked slowly through the narrow house, looking at the old paintings of flowers, horses, and one of—if Norway wasn’t mistaken—golden farmland in southern France. There was a small side table here, and on top of it sat a glass vase of roses and a framed photograph of England, France, Canada, and America. Norway paused, observing the four of them, America’s arms around Canada and England’s shoulders, France’s hand just visible on England’s waist, all of them smiling. It was such a domestic, _human_ thing; Norway was always surprised to see it here, placed specifically to be one of the first things you saw when entering the house. _England put it here for himself,_ Norway knew. _For nights when he comes home alone. A reminder of family._ England had his famous Splendid Isolation, but Norway knew a thing or two about solitude.

Norway peeked into the living room and the kitchen, but his search was fruitless. He was about to give up when it occurred to him that England could be in his garden. _I’ve come this far, trespassing into the garden won’t make it any worse._ He walked through the back door into the tiny fenced-in yard. It didn’t seem like enough room for much of anything to Norway, but England had put in rose bushes, bluebells, foxgloves, and a grand plume of lobelias in red, white, and blue. A pale-winged butterfly fluttered among the rose petals, and Norway smiled lightly, reminded of Denmark. England was still nowhere to be seen, but Norway at last saw proof of his presence: the door of his tiny garden shed was slightly ajar.

Norway walked over and opened the door. Inside, he did not see the gardening tools and bags of fertilizer he’d expected. In fact, there was no shed interior to speak of. There was a bright blue sky and emerald grass rustling in a warm breeze; the ground sloped upward, blocking Norway’s view of the horizon. Norway leaned back, regarding the shed’s outer walls, which appeared completely normal. England’s magick was no secret, least of all to Norway, but this was more than Norway had thought possible in today’s world, where magick was fading away faster and faster.

He stepped into the shed, onto the grass. The yard was gone; he was here, standing on the side of a hill. He turned around. The doorway was still there, the grey London sky visible through it. Norway pulled the door so it was as he had found it, slightly ajar. A sliver of the real world floating in the air of this beautiful somewhere. Then he turned and climbed the hill.

The view from the top took his breath away.

A valley stretched out in front of him, dotted with forests and meadows, shining where lakes and streams reflected the sunlight. Mountains rose in the distance; mossy stone arms wrapped around the valley, enclosing it in a protective embrace. All of it was straight from a storybook. And that was without the animals.

At first, Norway thought it was a trick of the eye. But no, his eyes were not tricked—the herd of horses grazing below were not horses, but unicorns. All of them white as snow, their manes and tails flowing like spun silk, their pearlescent horns sparkling as they chewed among patches of clover. They lifted their heads when Norway made his approach. The stallion, great and silver-bearded, flicked his ears forward and then back. Beside him, a mare gave a high whinny; the sound was so pure, tears briefly pricked in Norway’s eyes.

“I’m here.” And there was England, moving slowly among the herd, touching their withers gently as he passed, speaking in a soothing tone Norway had never heard from him before. “Easy. I’m here. Shh.” Every unicorn he touched lowered their head, relaxed into only gazing curiously rather than nervously at Norway. When England came to the stallion, the unicorn snorted and stomped a golden hoof. England laid a comforting hand flat on his neck. “Hey. It’s alright. I’m . . .” He followed the unicorn’s attention until his gaze landed on Norway, and his peaceful expression cleared into one of shock.

Norway couldn’t help but smile. “Hello, England.”

“Ah—yes, hello. Hello, Norway.” England couldn’t seem to find the words he wanted; his mouth opened and closed twice without anything more than a soft sound of helplessness coming out.

Behind him, a squeaky neigh pealed out like a cluster of tiny, blessed bells. A young unicorn on gangling legs came prancing out and proceeded to push its head under England’s arm, short tail switching playfully.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” England smiled down at the unicorn, immediately at ease again. “She reminds me of America.” He glanced at Norway. “This filly, I mean. She’s very rambunctious.” He scratched fondly at her forehead, and she nuzzled his side, nickering. “Her horn is just starting to grow.” He looked up at Norway again, this time a bit shy. “You can feel it, if you’d like to come meet her.”

Norway couldn’t recall ever seeing England so at ease, with such a big, genuine smile on his lips. “I would like that very much,” he replied, because of course he wanted to meet a unicorn. He walked over slowly, with England murmuring calming words to the stallion all the while. When he offered a hand to the filly, she nosed at it eagerly, lipping his palm. “She’s looking for treats,” England told him, then added with teasing sternness, “Which she already got today.” The filly’s ear twitched at his tone and she grunted as if in response, which drew laughter from both England and Norway. Norway gently touched the bump on her forehead and was surprised to find it not hard like the adults certainly were, but furred and soft as velvet.

“I haven’t seen a unicorn in decades,” Norway said, gaze flitting over the herd; there had to be at least thirty of them. “Is this you? All of this?”

England didn’t look up from brushing a bit of dirt out of the filly’s coat. “Well. Yes.”

“England.” Norway reached out to touch his arm. “Now is not the time to be modest. Look at this. This is beautiful. And you brought this out of your mind?”

The island nation smiled hesitantly. “The valley, yes. The creatures are from my Isles.” He gently stroked the swelled flank of a pregnant mare, smile fading. “Someone had to do this for them. Magick beings die every day, and no one even believes they existed in the first place.”

Norway felt a warm wave of empathy wash over his heart. “It’s good of you. Very kind.”

England just shrugged and said again, “Someone had to.” He gave a quiet sigh as he stepped away from the herd. “I suppose we should be getting back, then. I had tea without you, I’m afraid, but I wouldn’t be against having more, if you’d still like—”

“Actually,” Norway said, “I’d rather have a tour of your valley. If I’m welcome.”

England stopped, eyes widening. Then he smiled bright as dawn and said, “Yes, of course. Follow me.”

He led Norway away from the herd—the filly tried to follow them until her mother called her back—and into the trees, where tiny pixies fluttered out wearing leaves for clothes and flower petals for hats. They sat on England’s shoulders and on top of his head, playing with his hair and singing in a language Norway didn’t understand. England responded to them in the same language, then told Norway, “It’s Gaelic. They used to be in Devon, but I found them in Bristol. Long story. Especially when they tell it.”

Hearing the word _Bristol_ , the pixies all began tugging on England wherever they could grasp with their tiny hands: his shirt, his hair, his ears. They were all squeaking the same insistent thing to him, so Norway asked, “What is it they want?”

He rolled his eyes. “They want me to do a Bristol accent. I’m not doing it.”

That made them even more insistent, and Norway could tell this was a battle fought and lost many a time; he wasn’t in the least surprised when England huffed, “Oh, fine.” He cleared his throat. The pixies hushed each other, peering up at him with excitement plain on their wee faces. More cheerful than someone in a TV commercial, England grinned and asked loudly, “Alright me babbers?” and the pixies swirled into the air around him, tumbling over one another in convulsions of delighted, high-pitched giggles.

Norway tried to stifle his smile, for England’s sake, but the island nation didn’t seem overly bothered by it. “At least they’re easily pleased,” England remarked, continuing to walk. The pixies fluttered back into the branches, some waving to Norway as they went. He waved back and followed after England, asking, “Has America ever done that to you?”

“No, but only because he thinks I have two accents. Cockney and posh.”

“A rare occasion when ignorance is beneficial.”

“Exactly.”

England pointed out a pair of spriggans to Norway. They looked like old men who’d sat around while the forest grew through them; they had branches for fingers, moss and bark on their bodies, faces like carved masks. “They don’t like to be bothered,” England said quietly. “They act grumpy, but I suspect it’s because they’re lonely.”

Norway raised an eyebrow slightly, but if England was aware of the irony in that statement he didn’t show it.

They found a stream winding round the trees and walked along against the flow of the current, watching water sprites dance and splash each other. The stream led them out of the forest and into a marshy area, where every hole in the ground and gap in the sedge contained a face peeking out. England greeted them all in Gaelic, but only some greeted him back. These were goblins and brownies, with pinched faces and curled bodies and green skin. “Shy,” England said over his shoulder as they walked. “They keep to themselves. Some of them would rather be living around humans, but it’s safer for them here.”

Now they found themselves in a large meadow. The stream widened as it neared the steep wall of the valley; a waterfall poured from a huge cave high above where England and Norway stood. Norway glanced at England. “Does something live up there?”

England nodded, gaze fixated on the cave. Then, in another language Norway didn’t realize the other nation spoke, England called, _“_ _Dangoswch eich hun.”_

At first, nothing happened. Shadows moved within the cave; smoke oozed out into the air. All at once, a great red-scaled dragon erupted from its den in the stones. Massive crimson wings filled the sky. Black talons scored the air. Fangs glistened in jaws that could crush a car.

Just like that, Norway was little again, gazing at monsters of the air and the sea, terrified while others only caught glimpses of them. Enough to form stories about them, myths, folktales. Denmark couldn’t see them, but he told Norway he believed, even in the old days. _I’ll keep you safe,_ he told Norway back then, the first of many promises of protection. _No dragons will hurt you, Norge._

The ground shook when the dragon landed, drawing Norway from his memory. He blinked, for a few seconds unable to come to terms with what he was seeing. The dragon, red as blood, stood before England and lowered his head to be petted. Fearless, England stood beside a mouth that would have no trouble swallowing him whole and stroked the scaled snout. The dragon closed his vibrant yellow eyes and nuzzled at England, almost knocking the small nation off his feet. “Steady, old lad,” he murmured, and Norway realized the scales were fading in some places, chipped in others, the wings battered and scarred. All of these creatures were old, but this one was ancient. Standing here in this pocket of a forgotten realm, with a nation Norway had watched grow up from a little spitfire to the strongest Empire in the world to this person he knew as a friend today, Norway felt something sigh contentedly in his soul. He had been here a long time. So had this dragon. They had seen what happened in this world, over and over again. They had been pushed down, but they always, always got up. The world had tried to destroy them. Still they remained.

Norway stepped forward and rested a hand on the scales of the dragon’s face, soft like leather. The dragon’s big eye opened, gazing at Norway with peaceful recognition. Norway smiled faintly, and inclined his head. Then he glanced at England, watching them with a peculiar wisdom, at once young and old. Norway gave England the same respectful nod. England’s green gaze warmed, and he did the same. _Survivors,_ Norway thought. _All of us._

England gave the dragon’s foreleg a pat. _“Mynd adref.”_

The dragon lifted his head, pushed himself to full magnificent height, and flapped his wings. Wind blew seeds and grass at Norway and England as the dragon gained height, soared over all of the beautiful valley, gave a great roar that echoed through the air, through the nations, through time. Then he flared his wings and swept into the cave, vanishing from sight with a splash of his tail through the waterfall.

Norway and England stood in silence for a moment, basking in the awe of it all. They didn’t say a word as they walked back through the marsh, the forest, the unicorn meadow, and at last up the hill. They lingered here, England looking down at his creation, Norway looking at England, wondering what else he was capable of, wondering what it must be like behind those emerald eyes. _Worlds of beauty trapped in there,_ he thought. _With no way to get out._

England glanced at Norway, already reverting back to his typical stiffness. “I’d, ah, rather this stays between us.”

Norway smiled. “Your secret is safe with me, England.”

England’s lips hesitated, then curled into a smile of their own. “Thank you, Norway. Shall I fix you some tea?”

“Yes, I think that would be quite nice.”

They walked out of the garden shed. England closed and locked the door with a key he crouched to place beneath a flower pot. When he stood, his eyes were on Norway, their meaning clear: _You can come back, if you want to._  Norway gave a grateful nod. He would most definitely be returning to that beautiful piece of England’s mind.

Next time, he wouldn’t be late.

 

_The End._


End file.
